


The Gray Stuff, Or, The Beauty and the Candelabra

by SandyQuinn



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Hannibal is Hannibal, M/M, what do you mean pain medication doesn't work like that, will is super high and adorable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 04:50:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8476081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandyQuinn/pseuds/SandyQuinn
Summary: Set snugly somewhere in season 1 - Hannibal pays a visit to Will after not having heard from him for a few days.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Tiếng Việt available: [The Gray Stuff, Or, The Beauty and the Candelabra (translation) - Món màu xám, hay Người đẹp và Cái chân nến](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8592721) by [mabeo2610](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mabeo2610/pseuds/mabeo2610)



> i'm sorry

When Hannibal pulls up to Will’s yard, he’s still pretending, semi-successfully, that he’s not concerned.

A key to friendship is fostering comfortable dependence, he tells himself. To fill the other person with the need to be around you, to lean on you, to _depend_. When Will doesn’t call or show his face for over four days, Hannibal is within his rights to wonder what might have driven him away. Within his rights to drive up, maybe, and check up on him. Or his dogs. Or his phone. His phone, which might be broken. A good friend is ready to buy him another one, if that’s the case.

Right on cue, Hannibal’s cell phone beeps. He turns off the ignition, fishing it out of his pocket, relief flooding his chest for a moment before he realizes that it’s not Will returning his message, but Alana Bloom.

 _Nothing to worry about_ , Alana reports in her text. _He’s probably still recovering from getting his wisdom teeth out._ She also adds a little smiley face, completed with the nose. Hannibal stares at her message for a long time, blankly, and then turns his car back on, despite the fact that Will’s house is right there, and he can hear a cacophony of barking from the inside.

He probably needs to drive further away, for the _good_ ice cream.

*

Will doesn’t answer to his knocking, so Hannibal lets himself in, cramming himself between the door and the doorframe so the dogs won’t get out.

“Will?” he calls out, placing his plastic bag on the counter, and starts dispensing treats with practiced ease, so as not to be quite so crowded by wet noses poking at the expensive fabric of his trousers.

 Unfamiliar, perky music drifts from the other room, and Hannibal follows the sound, to find Will sprawled unusually boneless on his armchair, dressed in boxers, a t-shirt and a pair of horrendous tube socks that Hannibal would probably normally dispose of by cutting from the knees down.

At least he’s pretty, he reminds himself.

Will’s eyes are glazed over, which is not so unusual, but there is no odour of alcohol nor fever in the air. In fact, Will seems rather _happy_ , chuckling dazedly at the TV screen. Hannibal leans over a little. Will is watching _cartoons_.

“Will?” he asks again, irritated by the uncertain lilt in his voice.

Will looks up, seeing Hannibal for the first time, and his face – oh, his face practically lights up like the early morning sunrise, albeit a very dazed one, beaming at Hannibal with unguarded delight. It’s both very heartening, and very, very disturbing.

“H’nnibal!” Will exclaims, wiping a trail of drool from his chin, and then gestures, very graciously, at a trash bin. “Please, have a seat.”

“Oh,” says Hannibal, who by now has spotted the prescribed pain medication. “I see.”

*

Hannibal sits for a long moment, while Will giggles hysterically at cartoon dogs on the screen, and thinks very hard. Occasionally, he has to pause and bite the side of his thumb, as thoughts drift in and out of his conscious, dark and tempting. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Will quite this vulnerable, quite this open and helpless, before. He wonders who drove Will home, who left him in such state, what angel Hannibal is going to have to direct his flowers to.

But no – there are no impending plans that would need to be fulfilled in this pocket of good luck. Hannibal had hoped to cultivate this friendship with Will slowly, making it his prized possession – he can take this moment and simply prove to Will how trustworthy and caring a friend he truly is. This is a good moment.

He realizes that Will is staring at him blankly.

“Will?” he asks, softly.

Will reaches out, wide-eyed, and touches Hannibal’s face with his fingertips.

“Hannibal?” he slurs, drawing his hand back, startled. “When did you get here?”

“Goodness,” Hannibal says mildly. “Remind me to have a talk with your dentist, Will. You should _not_ be this disoriented. Too many cooks in the kitchen and all that.”

“I think they removed my mouth, Hannibal. I don’t feel it anymore.”

“I would be quite upset if they did,” Hannibal says briskly. “I like your mouth, Will.”

Will tosses his head back, laughing and only drooling a little bit. “Fresh!”

Hannibal smiles slowly. “Would you like some ice cream, Will?”

Will pauses, and stares at him.

“I think I’m in love with you,” he mumbles, dazed and wondering.

Hannibal files that under Concepts He’ll Examine Later, getting up on his feet and shrugging off his coat. “Is that so?” he says, to say something. “At least wait until you try the ice cream, Will.”

Will blinks.

“Hannibal? When did you get here?”

*

Will can’t stop laughing at the Disney movie. Hannibal rescues the ice cream bowl before the dogs get to it, and, after a hesitant pauses, digs in. There’s no point letting it go to waste, after all.

“Look!” Will points to the screen, unnecessarily animated. “Hannibal! It’s you! Look! That’s you!”

“Which one?” Hannibal asks politely, leaning his shoulder against Will’s as he gets comfortable on the couch that smells only marginally like wet dog. Will is giggling dazedly. At least he seems happy.

“The – candlestick, obviously. He – hosts things and kisses things and I can’t sometimes make out his accent either –“

“What?”

“And look, he’s going to sing, this is your song, Hannibal-“

“That’s a candelabra, Will,” Hannibal says, a little irritated. “And what’s the gray stuff?” He pauses. “Wait – Will, wouldn’t you rather say our situation resembles that of the titular characters – Beauty and the Beast? Though I suppose, one could wonder, _which_ one of us is the -”

“I’m the little teacup,” Will slurs.

“Well, I think you might be confusing that with the –“

“His name is _Chip_ ,” Will whispers, conspiratorially.   

“You’re the Beast,” Hannibal says, a little darkly. “I’ve seen you eat like that.” He feels a little sour. Metaphors are _wasted_ on Will when he’s this high. At least usually he gives as good as he gets.

Will chuckles with careless, sleepy abandon, and makes himself comfortable against Hannibal’s shoulder, and perhaps he drools a little – but he’s also warm, and his hair tickles Hannibal’s jaw, and he can’t really begrudge Will for what he does in this state.

He sighs, and finishes up the ice cream.

*

Hannibal feels a little concerned about allowing Will into the kitchen with him while he cooks – he feels a little as if he’s taking care of a big, trouserless toddler who hasn’t shaved in days.

“Are you doing okay there?” he asks, in the middle of chopping the onions. Will has been stroking the wall for about five minutes now, which is a relief. The toaster only distracted him for a minute and Hannibal was running out of ideas.

“Yeah,” Will says dreamily. “This feels good. I feel good.”

Hannibal smiles, despite himself. “That’s good.”

“This wall is my friend,” Will mumbles. “My best friend.”

“Well-“

“I _see_ you,” Will whispers at the wall, nose mere inches away from it.

Hannibal stares into space for a moment, and reflects with distant curiousity on the passing homicidal urge to take a sledgehammer to Will’s perfectly innocent kitchen wall.

“Will?” he says instead, making his voice honeyed and gentle. “Would you like to come and help me cook?”

“Okay,” Will slurs, drawing his hand away from the wall, shuffling his way over to Hannibal, smiling dreamily. Hannibal hesitates for a moment, and then decides that he’s not going to see what happens if he gives Will a knife in this situation.

“Could you get ingredients out for me?” he asks instead. “The chicken from the fridge, to begin with.”

He listens Will shuffling around, barefooted now – Hannibal had snapped, he couldn’t help himself – as the fridge door opens, and then closes.

A tub of unflavoured yogurt plops down next to Hannibal’s elbow. He stares at it.

“No – Will, the chicken. Please bring me the chicken,” he pleads softly. 

“Ohhh. Got it.”

Next, it’s the cheese.

“The chicken –“

A carton of eggs.

“Well, that’s close,” Hannibal admits. “I can see why Jack employs you.”

Will laughs dazedly, shuffles closer against Hannibal’s back – and as he stands there, his hands covered in bits of celery, Will wraps his arms around, nuzzles his face into the spot between Hannibal’s shoulder-blades, his body warm and heavy against his.

“’re so nice to me,” Will mumbles. “ _You’re_ my best friend, Hannibal. And you smell like cinnamon.”

Hannibal relaxes, in increments, his mouth curling slightly, helplessly. “You’re my friend too, Will,” he says softly. They stand like that for a moment, and he feels – comfortable, trying not to think of that too hard, his eyes fixed on the knife in his hand. Finally he stirs, and speaks.

“Now - will you be a good boy, and – try and bring me the chicken this time, Will? It’s on the top shelf.”

“Oh,” Will says, drawing back, words slurring together but his voice matter-of-fact. “You mean the decapitation case? The killer was left-handed – and likely lives with his mother.”

“ _That’s_ my Will.”

*

Hannibal has to admit – the thought of taking advantage of Will’s state had passed through his mind, had poked its head in and asked if anyone had called for it. He’d dismissed it almost immediately – despite the fact that Hannibal’s rules of conduct were a lot different than most people’s, he really didn’t get any kind of joy from forcing himself on Will, or anyone, for that matter. He had plenty of willing participants as it was.

Which is why his feelings are rather complex when Will flops down on his bed, sprawled like a starfish.

“Okay, I’m ready for the sex now,” Will says, unnecessarily loudly.  

Hannibal freezes, standing by the bed as he tries to sort out his feelings.

On the other hand, this is probably a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity: likely to bring them closer one way or another. Sex seems to do that, to most people, Hannibal has never quite bothered to figure out why.

On the other hand, Will is flailing his limbs like an actual beached starfish and it isn’t really inspiring much passion in Hannibal. He’s a little worried Will is going to kick his lamp onto the floor.

“Will-“ he starts, gingerly.

“Let’s do this,” Will mumbles. “I can, I’m ready to rumble, I’m ready to roll- “

“I _can’t_ really –“

“How do you – like _this_?” Will asks, like a man who’s never learned to flirt to save his life, rolls onto his stomach – and Hannibal has to admit, his ass is very nice, especially when Will is wriggling like that – and then promptly disappears as he falls off the bed and into the little crevice next to the wall. Hannibal’s not really sure what that move is called.  

He sighs. He can’t do this – admittedly, he’s not afraid to use manipulation, strategic deaths, confusing accent, ice cream and a choice of his _own_ drugs to make Will like him, to make _his_ – but he can’t do this. He’s actually had a rather nice day, so far.

He circles around the bed, managing to grab Will’s flailing arm to hoist him back onto the bed. Will blinks up at him, flushed and dazed, hair falling over his eyes, and then smiles sweetly, his eyes glazed and bright, and Hannibal’s mouth curls helplessly in response. Will looks – and Hannibal has never used this word before, but he can’t think of a better one – outright dorky. It suits him.

“Better?” he asks softly.

“I’m so dizzy,” Will mumbles. “My bed feels so comfy. Comfy – womfy. Wow.”

“Wow,” Hannibal agrees, sitting down carefully. “Maybe you should take a little nap, Will.”

“You think so?” Will mumbles.

“As your doctor, Will, I insist.” Hannibal pauses. “As your friend I think you should pass out for a while so I can clean all those poptarts from the floor. What happened there?”

“There’s poptarts?” Will mumbles. “I thought I was all out.”

“Oh, I see.” Hannibal pauses, and then reaches out – unable to resist himself, as he strokes Will’s hair back gingerly. Considering all the hugging today, it feels outright virtuous. Will sighs out, and closes his eyes, his normally exhausted face going slack and soft, dark lashes sweeping against his skin. For a moment Hannibal loses himself, marvels the brush of soft skin and radiating heat next to him, the wonder of something so brilliant contained in something so beautiful.

Will opens his eyes again, sleepily.

“I’m the little teacup,” he mumbles.

“You’re Beauty,” Hannibal says, softly. “And let no one else tell you different.”

Will sighs out, and closes his eyes again, as if acquiescing to the fact, licking his dry lips, settling down under Hannibal’s hand. Hannibal waits for a long while, running his fingers through Will’s hair, watches Will drift off into some hazy, deep sleep that might actually give him rest.

Eventually he withdraws his hand, shifting to stand up again.

Will reaches out, blindly, his light breath never changing, warm dry hand curling loosely around Hannibal’s fingers. Hannibal pauses, looking at their hands.

A clock ticks softly, somewhere in the house – Will’s copious dogs are lying in a pile of sleepy fur and cold noses next to the bed. Hannibal sighs, and then lets himself sit down, stretch out his legs, watch the rise and fall of Will’s chest.

Idly, he wonders whether Will has any use for a candelabra.


End file.
